


The Only Question Left Unanswered

by Seren_Castor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Reichenbach, Richard Brook is fake, Who is the real Moriarty, not sorry, ridiculous ending, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seren_Castor/pseuds/Seren_Castor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been three days. Three days since he had seen the most important person in his life plummet to his death. Today was the day of the funeral. He was going to see a plot of ground that he had seen so many times before in his medical career. The box with his friend inside of it would be covered with dirt. He was just glad that he wouldn’t have to look at his thin face again. Post-Reichenbach AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Question Left Unanswered

_**Part I: Three Days** _

It had been three days.

Three days since he had seen the most important person in his life plummet to his death. Today was the day of the funeral. He was going to see a plot of ground that he had seen so many times before in his medical career. The box with his friend inside of it would be covered with dirt. He was just glad that he wouldn’t have to look at his thin face again. The last time he saw it, there was a vacant expression and blood ran down until it met with the sides of the street. Traces of scars, what were once icy alive blue eyes, the pale white skin. The peaceful expression some mortician had no doubt plastered onto his face.   He had seen all of this so many times before. At war. In medicine. Never in his own mind so clearly—in his own life.

John Watson sighed as the images slowly began to fade, replaced by the window in his living room. He could barely focus his eyes any longer as the specter of a living and dead friend battled inside of him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling like his tie was choking him.

***

The chlorine burned in his nose as Sherlock Holmes waited in anticipation. Any second now the man he was waiting for would show up. He exhaled deeply, so that he would appear more relaxed and in control. Any second now.

 “Evening. This is a turn up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

He looked on in horror as the man speaking was not Moriarty like he had expected, but John Watson. For a brief second he felt doubt and confusion. He searched his mind for any indication of John’s betrayal, replaying every interaction and conversation in his mind. His mind ran at a hundred miles per minute. _‘Afghanastan of Iraq?’ ‘So we just met each other and we’re going to go look at a flat?’ ‘Amazing.’ ‘Well you did just kill a man.’ ‘There are human lives at stake!’_ Expression normal. Blank eyes. Same outfit as earlier. Why such a large coat?

“John. What the hell?”

“Bet you never saw this coming…” John exclaimed and Sherlock exhaled sharply.

He opened the coat to reveal the semtex strapped to his front. John’s words were careful and precise as well as controlled.

“What would you like me to make him say next? Gottle o’ geer. Gottle o’ Geer. Gottle o’ g—“

Now it was clear.

 “Stop it.”

 “Nice touch this—the pool. Where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart.”

 This couldn’t be John Watson.

 “Who are you?” 

***

 He wasn’t himself. Despite being alive, this was not one of Sherlock’s proudest moments. It was actually more difficult than he had anticipated. He hadn’t expected to see that outburst from John.

  _‘…just don’t be dead.’_

Even though he knew that faking his death was necessary—that he was trying to protect the people he tolerated. Liked moderately. Cared for. Loved even. He still had a feeling at the pit of his stomach that he didn’t recognize. It didn’t feel good. John seemed to be going through some kind of denial. Definitely a stage of grief. Sherlock briefly wondered how he would react to the news of him actually being alive, if it ever came to that. Would John be happy or angry or sad?

_‘I was so alone...’_

 For almost a year Sherlock had never felt alone. Even when he was technically alone in the flat, he never actually felt like he was the only one there. Even when John travelled somewhere occasionally, Sherlock always knew he would come back. Well, when he noticed that had gone. But even when he wasn’t there, Sherlock still felt cared for.

 Before his new living arrangement he had been used to a relatively solitary life. He saw Mrs. Hudson occasionally. His own brother. Lestrade. Never on a social visit. He used to be an island.

_‘…and I owe you so much.’_

Even though he would never admit to it out loud, the past three days had been difficult. Despite his success at faking his own death, it hadn’t felt like much of a victory. His normal exuberance had diminished.

He knew that John thought that emotions were a mystery to him, but there was nothing mysterious about the way John had broken down at the cemetery. It had been plain as day, even to Sherlock.

That had been a few hours ago that Mrs. Hudson and John had been at his grave. Without much reason, Sherlock had stayed for far longer than he had intended. Why did he come in the first place when he knew that it would compromise him emotionally? There was work to be done.

He stood at the spot that John had stood and touched his own tombstone. It was a bit surreal, really. He smiled as he looked down at the inscription. Nice and simple. Not too fashionable or overly sentimental. He shuttered at the thought of his tombstone saying something like ‘Loving sociopath and flatmate’ or something equally absurd. But this was too much abstract thinking for him. He needed to get away.

***

“Well are you coming?”

Hesitation. John didn’t know why he even asked. Sherlock knew he would come along, no matter how much he felt condescended.

“If you want me to.”

John was valuable to Sherlock but not for his intelligence. John got the gears turning. They were foils for each other.

“Of course. I’d be lost without my blogger.”

***

John Watson was at a loss. He didn’t know whether his grieving should take the form of inappropriate busy-ness or inappropriate idleness.

***

Sometimes, not much happens in three days.

Rewind three days ago. The day that he was at the cemetery.

He walked out into the disquieting daylight, disguised as an old man. Unthreatening enough to snoop around, and inconspicuous enough to walk around undetected. This way he wouldn’t be recognized by enemies or friends. 

Sherlock Holmes was hot on the trail of a person who he believed to be the real Moriarty. The fact that Richard Brook had hinted at an actor playing Moriarty had been a bit too accurate and plausible for his taste. It had to have a tinge of truth.

He was careful not to use any of his old sources as they might reveal to someone that he was still alive, and that was the last thing he wanted. All of his detective work needed to be done personally for a short time. He relied on fake identities, disguises, and frequent movement. He never tried to stay in one place for too long, and he never tried to make an impression. 

This particular afternoon he was checking on a lead at Russell Square Garden. Information from the late Richard Brook’s apartment had the name of the park written on a slip of paper next to the phone along with the letter, “J.” Logical that this was Moriarty, especially if he was trying to remain inconspicuous. It’s not like the note would say, “James Moriarty will meet you here” next to the telephone. That would just be too easy.

 It was a suspicious note though, because it was next to the telephone as though Brook had been listening to a message, and yet there was no call-back number.

When the police found Richard Brook’s flat with relative ease, Sherlock knew that he wasn’t the real mastermind. The real ringleader would leave an impossible trail. It did seem odd, however, that Moriarty would let a minion give away a clue about his real location. Sherlock was on his guard, either expecting danger or an understandably cold lead.

Woman with a baby. Scratch that. Pregnant with twins woman with a baby. Not a threat. Gang of teenagers ditching school. Annoying, but probably harmless. Man in labcoat. Doctor or chemist. Threat? Nothing in his pockets besides pens. Definitely actually a doctor. Meeting his wife for lunch. Barista taking a smoke break….

He didn’t exactly know where he was looking, but he knew he would find it. 

***

“I bet you get bored, don’t ya?” I know you do. Man like you. So clever. But what’s the point of being clever if you can’t prove it. Still the addict. But this, this is what you’re really addicted to. You do anything—anything at all to stop being bored. You not bored now are ya?...”

Gunshot. He falls.

“Okay, tell me this: your sponsor, who was it? The one who told you about me—my fan. I want a name.”

“No.”

“You’re dying and there’s still time to hurt you. Give. Me. A name. A name! Now!” he hisses in frustration, “ _the name_!”

“Moriartyyyy!”

He dies.

 Who is Moriarty?

 

_**Part II: Three Months** _

“It’s been a few months now, John. How are you feeling?”

 He sighed before looking out the window. He was purposefully averting his eyes from those of his therapist, whom had been attempting to help him through his grief. He had been seeing her once a week over the past couple of months, but had divulged very little information in their hour-long sessions. Today was different though. Something had happened.

 “Truthfully,” he began reluctantly, the words sticking his mouth.

“Yes?” she asked, carefully trying to encourage more words out of him.

“Truthfully,” he continued, “I feel guilty.”

“Guilty? There’s nothing you could’ve done, John. 

“Yes well… you think that. But I know there was something.”

She looked straight into his eyes sympathetically, with a little bit too much pity for John’s taste. Leaning forward, she explained, “What you’re experiencing right now is called survivor’s guilt. It’s when…”

“I know what it is! I was in the army and I’m a doctor. Give me some credit…”

Her gaze intensified but she didn’t continue speaking. Finally she shut the small notebook in front of her. “ I think that’s about enough for this session. Same time next week?” 

***

Sherlock shivered and looked into his drink, hands shaking, “I felt doubt. I’ve always been able to trust my own sense the evident of my own eyes until last night.”

His grim expressions looked stark in the dim lighting. The gleam in his eyes was unmistakable. 

***

He was not the type of man to frequent a café or wear a hat and yet he did both as he sat down to write with his tea, two sugars. The unsuspecting viewer would not look twice at the spectacle. Many people sit down at cafes to write various narratives, but anyone who was aware of the author would realize the rarity of this occurrence.

This man was not the type to write letters, to explain himself in sentences that made sense to the average human. To explain himself at all. This particular man did not busy himself with fanciful works of fiction or love letters or letters to friends. This man was one to string together narratives on unconnected observations--on a man’s cuff, on a woman’s coat, on the objects all around him. A ring, an eloquent spec of misplaced dust, a slip of phrase. 

A waiter approached his table and inquired if the man would like a dessert.

The man scowled and remarked, “Can’t you see I’m busy? Please leave me be.”

The edges of the letter cut his finger as he shooed the waiter away. He huffed disdainfully and pulled his cap further down his forehead. He wiped the drop of blood that began to settle on his fingertip to the corner of the page he was writing on.

This was definitely not a love letter. Usually he preferred to text, but this matter was far more important, far more sensitive. It required more than the usual explanation or means.

Sherlock Holmes didn’t waste time writing letters to lovers or friends. This was a letter to an enemy.

***

The words had never left John Watson’s mind. He remembered that fateful day when he had “pledged his allegiance” to Sherlock Holmes in the form of a ‘piss off’ to Mycroft.

“I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“And what’s that?”

“An enemy.”

John had an unmistakable feeling of joy as he walked away from that situation despite it being nighttime and in a dimly lit garage where people have late-night rendezvous, potentially at gunpoint.

Those words had struck him. Him and Sherlock were definitely friends, but they often occilated between love and hate. They worked well together, but they also worked in opposition.

***

He stood in the main room of the flat that he had so happily occupied for over a year before his untimely death. It looked rather untouched, but he suspected that it was more for sentimental reasons than anything else. He didn’t have much time. 

He knew that he needed to put the letter somewhere that it would be discovered, but not someplace that had already been searched. He finally decided on placing it in his own room, a place he knew wouldn’t be touched only a couple of days after his own death, but might be investigated after the initial grief had worn off.

***

It had been several months. He had barely chanced a glance at that room, but today he was feeling brave. He crossed the threshold and took a deep breath, closing his eyes and lifting his head to the ceiling, afraid to look. His foot touched on something that wasn’t normal floor material and he dared to open his eyes.

_“The point isn’t to get Sherlock Holmes to die. The point is for him to solve the mystery.”_

_“Well that’s fine and good, but what if he misses the point?”_

_“He can’t miss the point. He’s Sherlock Holmes. He cares way more for the thrill of the chase than a little bit of risk.”_

It was a letter on the floor in front of him. 

 

_**Part III: Three Minutes**  _

Sometimes, nothing not much happens in three days. These three days, however, were an exception.

Russell Square Gardens. Sherlock Holmes was disguised as an old man and began feeding pigeons while sitting on a park bench. What’s less conspicuous that an old man feeding pigeons at a park? After an hour of sitting he realized this lead might be impossible to glean any information from and he began to feel discouraged.

Just as he had decided to relocate and look for other leads, not seeing anything worth noting in the park he spotted John Watson hobbling toward the park bench adjacent to him. He lowered his cap and put on his sunglasses. It was rather sunny, after all. He didn’t get up.

John parked himself on the bench and looked forward for a few minutes. What was he doing here?

John reached under the park bench and retrieved an envelope that had presumably been taped there.

***

It took him almost three months to write the letter. It took John Watson three minutes to read it. 

_Dear John,_

_Before you misconstrue the purpose of this letter, as you are apt to do, you should be aware that I am not writing to you from beyond the grave. I am in fact, dead, just as you witnessed. I wrote this letter in the hours preceding my death, so that you could find it and know what lead me to my “suicide,” as I predicted you would be reluctant to accept the terms of my demise._

_As you probably have already deduced, this note amends my original suicide note. We both know why this is, I suspect._

_We find ourselves in an unusual position. In our relationship, I have always been the one to answer the questions, but little did I know that you put the questions before me, already expecting that I would be a willing participant in your façade. Despite never being able to receive the answer, I will pose you one last, the only question left unanswered in your little plan. Why go through with this elaborate farce?_

_It has been the only question I could not answer._

_-SH_

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
